Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

“Disoriented.”

“I mean, look what I did,” she said. “Untied myself and climbed up that hill and ran out to the road without even putting my clothes on. I had to be disoriented. If I was thinking normal, would I do that? Then, after that old guy, the one on the road who…” Her frown made it as far as the left side of her mouth before retracting.

“The old man who…”

“I was going to say the old guy saved me but I wasn’t in real danger. Still, I was pretty terrified. Because I still didn’t know if Dylan was okay. By the time the old guy called the rescue squad and they got there, Dylan was out of the ropes and standing there. When no one was looking, he gave a little smile. Like ha-ha, good joke.”

“You feel Dylan manipulated you.”

“That’s the saddest thing. Losing trust. The whole thing was supposed to be about trust. Nora’s always teaching us about the artist’s life as constant danger. You’re always working without a net. Dylan was my partner and I trusted him. That’s why I went along with it in the first place.”

“Did it take him a while to talk you into it?”

She frowned. “He made it like an adventure. Buying all that stuff. He made me feel like a kid having fun.”

“Planning was fun,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“Buying the rope and the food.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Careful plan.”

Her shoulders tightened. “What do you mean?”

“You guys paid cash and used several different stores in different neighborhoods.”

“That was all Dylan,” she said.

“Did he explain why he’d planned it that way?”

“We really didn’t talk about it. It was like…we did so many exercises before, this was just another one. I felt I had to use my right side. Of my brain. Nora taught us to concentrate on using the right side of the brain, just kind of slip into right-brain stuff.”

“The creative side,” I said.

“Exactly. Don’t think too much, just throw yourself in.”

“Nora keeps coming up.”

Silence.

“How do you think she feels about what happened, Michaela?”

“I know how she feels. She’s pissed. After the police took me in, I called her. She said getting caught was amateurish and stupid, don’t come back. Then she hung up.”

“Getting caught,” I said. “She wasn’t angry at the scheme itself?”

“That’s what she told me. It was stupid to get caught.” Her eyes moistened.

“Hearing that from her must’ve been tough,” I said.

“She’s in a power role vis-à-vis me.”

“You try talking to her again?”

“She won’t return my calls. So now I can’t go to the PlayHouse. Not that it matters. I guess.”

“Time to move on?”

Tears ran down her face. “I can’t afford to study, ’cause I’m broke. Gonna have to put my name in with one of those agencies. Be a personal assistant or a nanny. Or flip burgers or something.”

“Those are your only choices?”

“Who’s gonna hire me for a good job when I need to go out on auditions? And also until this is over.”

I handed her another tissue.

“I sure wasn’t out to hurt anyone, believe me, Doctor. I know I should’ve thought more and felt less, but Dylan…” She drew up her legs again. Negligible body fat allowed her to fold like paper. With that lack of insulation, two nights up in the hills must’ve chilled her. Even if she was lying about her fear, the experience hadn’t been pleasant: The final police report had cited fresh human excrement under a nearby tree, leaves and candy wrappers used for toilet paper.

“Now,” she said, “everyone will think I’m a dumb blonde.”

“Some people say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

“They do?” she said. “You think so?”

“I think people can turn themselves around.”

She fixed her eyes on mine. “I was stupid and I’m so, so sorry.”

I said, “Whatever you guys intended, it ended up being a rough couple of nights.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being out there in the cold. No bathroom.”

“That was gross, ” she said. “It was freezing and I felt like creepy-crawlies were all over me, just eating me up. Afterward my arms and legs and my neck hurt. Because I tied myself too tight.” She grimaced. “I wanted to be authentic. To show Dylan.”

“Show him what?”

“That I was a serious actor.”

“Were you out to please anyone else, Michaela?”

“What do you mean?”

“You had to figure the story would get exposure. Did you consider how other people would react?”

“Like who?”

“Let’s start with Nora.”

“I honestly felt she’d respect us. For having integrity. Instead she’s pissed.”

“What about your mother?”

She waved that off.

“You didn’t think about your mother?”

“I don’t talk to her. She’s not in my life.”

“Does she know about what happened?”

“She doesn’t read the papers but I guess if it’s in the Phoenix Sun and somebody shows it to her.”

“You haven’t called her?”

“She can’t do anything to help me.” She mumbled.

“Why’s that, Michaela?”

“She’s sick. Lung disease. My whole childhood she was sick with something. Even when I fell on my head it was a neighbor took me to the doctor.”

“Mom wasn’t there for you.”

She glanced to the side. “When she was stoned she’d hit me.”

“Mom was into drugs.”

“Mostly weed, sometimes she’d take pills for her moods. Mostly, she liked to smoke. Weed and tobacco and Courvoisier. Her lungs are seriously burned away. She breathes with a tank.”

“Tough childhood.”

She mumbled again.

I said, “I missed that.”

“My childhood. I don’t like talking about it but I’m being totally honest with you. No illusions, no emotional curtain, you know? It’s like a mantra. I kept telling myself, ‘honesty honesty honesty.’ Lauritz told me to keep that here, right in front.” A tapered finger touched a smooth, bronze brow.

“What did you figure would happen when the story got out?”

Silence.

“Michaela?”

“Maybe TV.”

“Getting on TV?”

“Reality TV. Like a mixture of Punk’d and Survivor and Fear Factor but with no one knowing what’s real and what isn’t. It’s not like we were trying to be mean. We were just trying to get a breakthrough.”

“What kind of breakthrough?”

“Mentally.”

“What about as a career move?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you think it might get you a part on a reality show?”

“Dylan thought it might,” she said.

“You didn’t?”

“I didn’t think, period…maybe down deep- unconsciously- I thought it might help get through the wall.”

“What wall is that?”

“The success wall. You go on auditions and they look at you like you’re not there, and even when they say they might call they don’t. You’re just as talented as the girl who gets called, there’s no reason anything happens. So why not? Get yourself noticed, do something special or weird or terrific. Make yourself special for being special.”

She got up, circled the office. Kicked one shoe with the other and nearly lost balance. Maybe she’d been telling the truth about being clumsy.

“It’s a suck life,” she said.

“Being an actor.”

“Being any kind of artist. Everyone loves artists but they also hate them!”

Grabbing her hair with both hands, she yanked, stretching her beautiful face into something reptilian.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is?” she said through elongated lips.